


Scars

by TheFairysPath (friendlyneighborhoodfairy)



Series: The Path I Took (WWTDP 2018) [8]
Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Anger, Explicit Consent, Gentleness, Kissing, M/M, Romance, Scars, evening walk through an orchard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 11:19:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16263134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/friendlyneighborhoodfairy/pseuds/TheFairysPath
Summary: Lahar asks Doranbolt about his scars.(Fic #1 forWhen We Take Different PathsMLM week.)





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mdelpin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mdelpin/gifts), [splendidlyimperfect](https://archiveofourown.org/users/splendidlyimperfect/gifts).



> Prompt = scars + Doranhar.
> 
> For splendidlyimperfect and mdelpin, who are helping me keep my nerve in posting every day of this event. ^_^

Lahar suddenly looked up across the desk.

The quick move was startling enough that Doranbolt looked up from what he was doing and met Lahar's eyes. There was a special glint behind those glasses, a small almost-smile drawing up his mouth.

Doranbolt asked, "What?"

"Where," Lahar asked slowly, "did you get that?"

Doranbolt opened his mouth to ask what on earth he was talking about, but Lahar reached out, another shocking gesture from the man who was always so self-contained, and brushed his fingertips against Doranbolt's cheek.

Oh.

"Long time ago," Doranbolt said heavily.

"Where?"

Doranbolt was irked, and glared accordingly. But perhaps because Lahar interrogated people all day, he was immune to such hints.

"At home," Doranbolt said, returning his eyes to his report. "Mom dropped a bucket of lye and I leapt out of the way to avoid getting burnt, and tripped into a plow instead."

Lahar gaped.

"A plow?"

"Yes." Doranbolt scratched his head with his pen nib (unaware this left a trail of ink on his forehead that Lahar observed fondly). "I grew up on a farm. Remember? Out in the middle of nowhere. We were in the barn, Mom was going to clean the floors…hence the lye."

"It sounds dangerous."

"It is. Raw lye can burn your skin off. You can die from the burns if you're immersed. This," he waved a hand at his face, "is a cheap price to pay for having my life."

When he focused on the words on the paper in front of him, Doranbolt took the silence as Lahar cottoning on. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Lahar cupped his cheek.

"Wh-What?" he demanded again, more shakily than he wanted.

"You don't have to say it's a small price," Lahar said.

"Well, it is. I should be grateful."

"But it's okay if you're not," Lahar said. "It's okay to be angry."

"I almost lost my fucking eye," Doranbolt growled, pulling away from Lahar's touch and shoving the report away from himself. He wouldn't get any work done at this point; he was too riled. "I'm lucky."

"You're beautiful."

Doranbolt nearly toppled out of his chair.

"What?"

"You heard me." Lahar's lips spread in a smile. "You're lovely."

Doranbolt snorted and stared down at the bare wooden surface of his desk. Lahar's papers littered half of it, the pair of them working together in comfortable silence, since they'd long ago found each other perfect companions for this kind of work.

"I don't know how you…well, whatever. Thank you, I guess."

"You're welcome."

It took several long breaths before Doranbolt could lift his head, but when he did, he found that Lahar had bent back over his files. As if Doranbolt weren't shaken up from a few touches and a casually-flung compliment.

"I'm going for a walk," he said, standing. After a second's hesitation, he made an abrupt break for the door. He rushed past Lahar's chair, murmuring, "Fresh air."

"I'll come with you."

Just as speedy, Lahar rose and slid on his coat, following Doranbolt into the corridor. He didn't button it up, pushing his hands in his pockets and yawning, turtleneck visible. He was being so casual today, so unlike all the little tics people knew Lahar for (and made fun of in some circles): it was unnerving.

They took a side exit, Doranbolt holding the door. He blushed when Lahar gave him a little bow.

Once outside, Doranbolt remembered why he almost never took walks around here: the city of Era was plain, arid, and industrialized.

"C'mon," he said, "I know a better spot."

And, putting a hand on Lahar's shoulder, he moved them.

They reappeared in a lane of apple trees.

"Where are we?" Lahar asked.

"An large orchard some kilometers north. I come here to wander."

Lahar gave a thoughtful smile.

They trod between the lanes of rough bark in silence, Doranbolt clasping his hands behind his back. He could breathe deeply here, get a grip on his mind and feel centered.

"May I ask a question?" Lahar asked.

"Sure."

"Why are you angry about it?"

"My face?" Doranbolt inhaled through tight lips. "It's the first thing people look at."

"Sorry," Lahar muttered. "I'm sure I gawked too."

"It's okay." Doranbolt chuckled, then teased, "Not like I had much career potential in beauty."

Lahar smiled at the path.

Doranbolt still had his hands clasped behind his back, and he saw when Lahar retracted his hand from his pocket and reached for him. Some small thing inside Doranbolt gulped and froze up awaiting that touch, while the forward part of his brain was confused what Lahar was doing—but then fingers slid into his own, drawing his hand to his side, Lahar intertwining their fingers.

Lahar was still smiling.

"I thought you were handsome the first time I saw you," he admitted. "You had this rugged look. Everyone else comes into our division young and headstrong…but you were thoughtful, brave but not stupid, someone on my level. An equal. And you had this dashing scar as if to show off that you'd survived battles, and didn't care what anyone thought of you. I…I liked you right away."

Doranbolt was grinning now too, squeezing Lahar's fingers. Their bond communicated through their hands, bumping against each other's legs, fingers finding the comfortable spot between the other's knuckles. Lahar was not wearing gloves for once, and Doranbolt found himself supremely glad. He could feel Lahar's clammy palm, could draw his thumb over Lahar's hand and hear his breath catch as if a laugh or something even more incredible were about to burst out of him.

"Do you have any scars?" Doranbolt asked.

"Not anywhere people can see," Lahar said, then blushed, and an awkward silence fell over them. "I…have a scar here—" he gestured below his collarbone, "—from an incident with a practice sword a long time ago: not bad. I have a worse one low on my abdomen. Someone tried to gut me."

"What?!"

"It's alright; it wasn't too terrible," Lahar assured him. "Just needed a dozen stitches. I'd show you, but." He gestured around at the public space they occupied.

"I'd still like to see later," Doranbolt said before he could stop himself.

Lahar looked over at him, eyes hopeful, his defenses down. "Okay."

Doranbolt pulled them to a stop and reached out to touch the place on the right side of Lahar's chest where the one scar hid. As his fingers touched warm cloth, Lahar's breathing stalled, and it fascinated him, made him wonder what Lahar would do if he slid his hand down, along his stomach through the open line of his jacket. He stopped at Lahar's hip, feeling his muscles expand and contract with rapid inhales.

Lahar placed his free hand on Doranbolt's chest, eyes not quite meeting his. His gaze was lower, watching Doranbolt's mouth.

The hand on Doranbolt's chest sparked excitement inside him. He wanted to know what would happen if he leaned in. Whether Lahar would avoid him, or freeze, or come in to meet him. How close he would let Doranbolt get.

The answer was: very close.

Doranbolt tilted his head slightly on instinct, watching Lahar's eyes, which finally flicked up to meet his. Staring at him, Lahar very deliberately tilted his head the opposite way and crossed all but the last centimeter of space between them.

So Doranbolt kissed him. He could smell aftershave, feel the slight prickle stubble beneath his lips. The soft dart of a tongue against his lip had him jolting in surprise, wound so tight with desire, but Lahar was holding him now, other hand wrapped around Doranbolt's waist, and Doranbolt let that anchor his heart, pressing in and sliding his tongue into Lahar's mouth, sucking on his bottom lip, hearing him make a small moan.

At that, they broke apart, both panting and wide-eyed.

"I'm—sorry," were the first startled words out of Lahar's mouth, and Doranbolt was so anxious that Lahar not put his defenses back up that he growled and stole in for another kiss. This time his thumb circled Lahar's hip sensually, other hand hooking in his belt. After a minute of Lahar's lips pulling on his, Doranbolt reached up and pulled the pin from Lahar's hair, letting it fall, running his fingers through it and giving it a slight pull, which elicited another groan. When Lahar pulled away, it was with a bit more force.

"Wait," Lahar laughed, "not here. I'm going to…not here."

"Okay."

They stepped away from each other, both brushing themselves off. Lahar made no move to put his hair back up, shaking it out so it fell about his shoulders. Doranbolt liked him this way; just a little less put-together—a little more human and natural. It made Doranbolt feel like he could be vulnerable, like he was safe.

"Want to come over to my place tonight?" he asked. "We can make dinner and get away from those reports. I doubt I'll finish by this evening."

"Me neither. Yes, let's." Lahar smiled at him, a special, happy smile, and they turned back they way they had come.

"I just remembered we can't walk back," Lahar laughed.

"We can at least part of the way," Doranbolt said. "It's prettier than Era."

Lahar looked over at him, eyes following the lines of his face. "It certainly is."

**Author's Note:**

> This is my favorite rarepair.
> 
> My fic for the 10th is ready, but the 9th (Gratsu fluff) is still half-baked. Soon!


End file.
